


Take my Hand

by ChaoticCello



Category: Forgotten Realms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cross-posted on the FR Kinkmeme on LiveJournal, Injury Recovery, Managled Hands, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Drama, Rape Recovery, Some Subtle and Some Not-So-Subtle Allusions to Rape and Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticCello/pseuds/ChaoticCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cross-posted on the FR Kinkmeme on LiveJournal</p><p>Drizzt had been defeated and left for dead. On the edge of death, he is discovered by Jarlaxle and Entreri. Unfortunately for Drizzt, magic has been broken and he has to heal the long way with some help from his rather unexpected and slightly reluctant saviors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He could hear footsteps…. At least he thought he could. At this point it could be just his mind making up hallucinations—desperately trying to cope while he hopelessly waits for death to finally take him.  
  
It had been three, four…maybe five days now? He wasn’t too sure. He couldn’t be too sure. He just knew it had been too long…and now it was just a matter of time. No one was coming.   
  
He had yelled for help until his voice gave out—and even attempted to continue for perhaps a day after that; not caring that his voice was a rasp that no one could hear. Not caring that his abused dry throat was nothing more than a bleeding mess. Not caring that by continuing to yell that he was only succeeding in mangling his vocal cords.  
The only reason he had stopped was because between his attempt to escape his bonds—a futile endeavor at wrenching against rope and thrashing in attempt to knock over the wretched scaffold—and his shouted pleas that he simply had no energy left.   
  
That left him with the the only thing he could do. Dangle from the scaffold and wait for death as his mind conjures the hallucination of footsteps.  
  
Because even though he tried with everything that was _left_ of him, without his hands there was no way to escape… and with the ghastly iron nails biting into each of his fingers and the center of his palms there was no way he could get use of his hands. Leaving him here imprisoned, trapped, for dead….  
….and forced to listen to his minds damned hallucinations of footsteps.  
  
Footsteps getting louder. And louder. And louder. Approaching him. As if he would be stumbled upon by an imaginary savior.   
  
He could only loll his head back and let out a pitiful cry as slowly the footsteps became two distinct pairs. Accompanied by voices!   
  
Strangely familiar voices shouting words that he couldn’t understand apart from an underlying tone of annoyance. Voices familiar enough that despite _knowing_ that his mind was just playing dirty tricks on him, it was impossible to stop a glimmer of hope from surging through him.   
  
A dim glimmer that is promptly destroyed as the sound of footsteps abruptly halt and the voices are silenced.  
  
He forced his eyes open to glare at the spot where the hallucination had come from and curse the gods that were tormenting him so. But to his surprise, once he looked passed the blood stained ground and the occasional body of highway men, stood a wide eyed Jarlaxle and Entreri.   
  
He tried to let out a laugh—making more of a chocking noise than anything. He wasn’t sure if was hallucinating or if they were actually here.  
  
Then Jarlaxle’s mouth opened and let out a garbled noise. His lips were moving as if he were saying: “He is alive. We have to help him.” But the sounds were just gibberish.   
  
It was a hallucination. A cruel hallucination. Drizzt let out a broken cry. It only took a second the harsh metal of a bejeweled dagger to pressed against his neck.


	2. Chapter 2

But before the wicked blade could sink into his neck to rob him of what little lifeblood he had left, the dagger was wrenched away. He lifted his eyes up to see the image of Jarlaxle holding Entreri’s arm back and the pair snarling at each other. Then the sliver of hope that the pair was not a hallucination suddenly hit him again. It made sense that Entreri tried to kill him and Jarlaxle stopping the assassin could be rationalized.  
  
But again, gibberish words left the pair’s lips. It couldn’t be real. He didn’t bother trying to read their false lips. Cursing his mind, he let his head hang and closed his eyes. Hoping it will all stop.  
  
It didn’t and the incoherent sounds simply washed by him in jumbled waves. Then it all suddenly clicked in his minds when the word “Mercy,” left Entreri’s mouth.  
  
He understood the word, but he was just confounded at the fact it was Entreri was talking about mercy. He wondered if the words a preceded it amounted to ‘we cannot show him mercy.’   
  
He could not ponder it further because as soon as his mind had comprehended the word mercy, everything else began to click into place and to place and they were both speaking words…maybe they were real after all?  
  
“Putting him out of his misery is rather aggressive, when we can just heal him!”  
  
“With your magic healing orb, inside your magical hat? Did you forget that you _signal- handily broke magic_ three days ago?”  
  
“Now, Artemis it wasn’t _all_ my fault!”  
  
He half-wished that the words were gibberish again. At least if the sounds were nonsense, he could pretend that the pair was not actually saying mostly nonsense. He lifted his head to see if their actions matched the ridiculous words.  
  
They stood just a couple of feet from him. An expression of exasperation on Entreri’s face as the dagger twirled idly in his hand. An equally annoyed expression on Jarlaxle’s face as he slowly maneuvered closer to him, as if to stop the dagger should Entreri try to slay him again.  
  
“If you didn't meddle, it wouldn't have happened! Not that it matters because unless you can fix it---and you just didn’t think to do it until now---there is nothing we can do for him.”  
  
“We can heal him the long way! Bandages, splints, and all of that stuff!”  
  
He could see Entreri lower his dagger and pinch his nose. “Do you even have any bandages?”  
  
“Of course, I do. They are in my…” Jarlaxle trailed off.  
  
“Inside your magical hat?” Entreri raised his dagger again and pushed passed Jarlaxle towards him. Drizzt closed his eyes.  
  
The blow never came. Instead all he heard was Jarlaxle shouting, “Wait! Give me your shirt!”  
  
His eyes opened and he stared at Jarlaxle with a look that was equally incredulous as Entreri’s.   
  
Any doubt this was not a hallucination was gone. It was the only explanation for the madness he descended into as the mercenary tackled the assassin into the filthy blood and other fluid stained ground to tug at the human’s shirt while deftly attempting to avoid stab wounds as Entreri bared his dagger.  
  
He closed his eyes again. Maybe, this hallucination would disappear and his mind would conjure something more pleasant and less bizarre while he waited to die. Like Catti-brie with some soothing words. _Anything_ but an eccentric mercenary from his homeland wrestling with his most hated enemy in the attempt to remove clothing.  
  
There was no such luck, as the sounds of the pair wrestling, hitting, snarling and growling at each other continued until Jarlaxle voice pierce the air. ”Got it!” He opened his eyes and saw the slightly beaten up mercenary hold a now mostly torn shirt in the air, triumphantly.  
  
The shirtless Entreri with a busted lip looked as he were contemplating murder. “Now what does that accomplish other than giving me _another_ reason to kill you?”  
  
He saw Jarlaxle was beaming as he began to rip the shirt into long strips. “Bandages!”


	3. Chapter 3

He couldn’t stop an unmistakably broken laugh from escaping.

Both the assassin and the mercenary halted their movements and stared, looking as if they both had forgotten he was there. Then a distinctly fake smile graced Jarlaxle’s face, and the elf took on a chipper tone. “Drizzt! I didn’t even realize you were awake. Don’t worry, we are going to fix you up. I’m making shirt-bandages. Artemis is going to get you down.”

Drizzt didn’t respond to the Jarlaxle hallucination and gazed abjectly at the Entreri, whom instead of getting him down began to descend into another argument with Jarlaxle.

Unable to watch or listen to another display by his strange hallucinations, he closed his eyes and attempted to block out their noises. This time he was lucky. The words began to slip into gibberish, which became incoherent mumbles, which eventually faded into a peaceful silence. He wasn’t sure if he was asleep or finally dying, but the tranquil quiet was a welcome relief from the recent hell he has fallen into.

The serenity did not last. A shrill scream—his own scream—and a piercing pain in his hand made his eyes snap open. Entreri had one of the twelve wicked nails in his hands. A carefully blank look was on the human’s face. However, Drizzt felt his own face blanching as his saw some vile pus clinging to the nail and an absolutely putrid scent bombarded his nose.

The nail is haphazardly thrown to the side, but not before wave of nausea hits him and he lets out a sickened and gurgled moan. Entreri’s blank expression becomes one of annoyance. “I swear Do’Urden, if you vomit on me all of this will be the least of your problems.”

There was no wait for a response before Entreri continued on his task in pulling out the ghastly nails. Drizzt held his breath and clamped his teeth down on his lip as the human began to methodically pull each nail loose. The taste of iron filled his mouth and the pain was blinding. Tears were streaming down his face and what little of his body that was still capable of moving convulsed.

He wished for the torture to stop and tried to gasp out words. To beg his hated enemy to stop the cruel pain. He only succeeded in sputtering blood in Entreri’s face. The assassin didn’t pause to wipe off the blood before he yanked the final nail away. Drizzt’s arms slumped uselessly his sides and his body lurched forward.

 

He was falling. He was free. He was falling. Drizzt expected himself to hit the ground, but surprisingly warm arms engulfed themselves around him. His head rested on a shoulder and he found himself staring at the expanse of Entreri’s back. Entreri caught him?

He craned his head back and saw the blood spattered, disgusted profile of the heartless assassin. Entreri had caught him. He took a labored breath and tried to force himself to form words as the human awkwardly carried him away from the hateful scaffold. It took him a couple of tries, but eventually he managed a rasp. “Is this real?”

Entreri didn’t reply. Instead he unceremoniously lowered Drizzt to the ground. The injured elf struggled to sit up before dark hands pushed him on his back and red eyes loomed over him. “It’s okay, Drizzt. I’m just going to try to clean and bandage your wounds now.” Jarlaxle’s voice still held its early chipper and the forced smile was once again plastered on the mercenary’s face.

“Real?” He rasped again. He didn’t care what the older drow was saying. He just needed to confirm that this was all real. That he was really free.

He found his head propped up in Jarlaxle’s lap. The fake smile was gone and was replaced by an endearing look. “Yes, Drizzt we are real.”

He didn’t have time to further question before the edge of a bottle was pressed to his lips. The taste of bitter iron mixed with something floral filled his mouth, but he did not complain about the taste as the cool liquid ran down his throat. A strange sense of tiredness began to pervade his senses not long before the bottle was taken away. Darkness took over his vision and the words, “I found some Night-flower while Artemis was getting you down. It won’t heal you. It’s just going to help you rest,” were barely heard—let alone comprehended—as his exhausted mind and body was forced to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the new tag Some Subtle and Some Not-So-Subtle Allusions to Rape and Torture? Warning: this chapter is one of the not-so-subtle ones. It isn't written out in details, but is very HEAVILY implied.

He was warm. He was actually warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he was warm. It was before…before they—he cut off his thoughts. No thoughts of the torture. No thoughts of jeering highwaymen’s faces as they brought their knives to his flesh. No thoughts of how they drunkenly laughed when they got out their wicked nails. No thought of…no thoughts of everything else.  
  
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—think about it. No, he’ll just focus on the warm warmth that surrounded him. Protecting him. Keeping him safe. Like a protective hug. Protective arms of warmth around him. _Arms around him._  
  
His stomach clenched and he swore his heart stopped beating for a moment. Arms around him. There were arms around him. Arms like _their_ arms. Arms that held him down during the torture and when they----no, no, no, no. He will not think about it!  
  
He tried to force his heavy eyes open. Please don’t let it be them. He had to be sure that it wasn’t them. That these weren’t their arms around him. That they weren’t going to continue his torture. That they weren’t going to---no don’t think about it! He couldn’t think about it. He can’t think about it. He had to open his eyes. His heavy, heavy eyes.  
  
Leaden eyes that just won’t open. A keeling whine pierced the air. He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t make them obey and just open. He couldn’t see if it was them. If it was their warm arms entrapping him.  
  
Warm arms that were shifting him as an even warmer hand brought itself to his face. Touching his face. His mouth. Forcing it to open. NO! No, no, no, no!  
  
Incomprehensible cries and whine were piercing the air again. Sounds that he only vaguely realized were his.  
  
No! No, this couldn’t be happening again! He tried to bit down, move his head, thrash, open his eyes and do anything. Everything was too heavy. He couldn’t move. He was helpless. He could do nothing while, while…  
  
He couldn’t breathe. It was going to happen again. The hand had forced his mouth open and he was trapped in the damned arms. But instead of the violation he was expecting, the lips of a bottle forced in his mouth. Filling it with a cool familiar floral taste.  
  
Other memories filled his mind. _Night-flower. Jarlaxle and Entreri._  
  
He had been saved. He was safe. He wasn’t with friends. In fact, he was with his most hated enemy and an eccentric mercenary that he knew he couldn’t trust. But they had saved him. And they weren’t _them_. He was safe  
  
The potent night-flower water was running down his throat, and bringing him back to sleep. But it was okay. He was warm and the arms around him weren’t _theirs._ He was safe…safe…safe...safe…


	5. Chapter 5

Cold. Everything around him was cold. He was cold and trapped in the darkness. Again.   
  
Unable to move. Unable to shiver, curl up into himself, or even shift over just a _little_ bit—so there wasn’t a terrible sharp edge digging into his side.  
  
But he couldn’t do any of that. His body was weighted down with an awful heaviness, and his mind is so ambled that he is struggling to form every thought.  
  
What was forcing him to be this helpless? To be so…so...unprotected? Weak? No that wasn’t the right word. To be…to be… The right word was eluding him. Skirting around the edges of his mind and hiding behind a heavy fog. A heavy fog caused by…something.  
  
Something was making him this—  
  
All of his concentration is broken off by an involuntary shiver. Movement! Glorious movement that temporarily steeped away the cold…A small moment of warmth that he could only bask in.  
  
However, all too soon the short shiver is complete, and the cold begins to return. Numbingly gnawing at his bones. Leeching at his life.  
  
He tried to attempt the tiniest movement—the smallest of shivers—but it was futile. He couldn’t move.  
  
He tried to scream. But his breath barely even changed and there was no sound emitted. So helpless. Weak. Vulnerable. Vulnerable—that was the word he had been looking for. Vulnerable. And there was nothing he could do.  
  
Another shiver and another wave of warmth, but then the coldness seeped back into him all too quickly. He wished he could scream and cry. Mielikki help him. He _wanted_ to cry.   
  
He has fallen from a heroic warrior beloved by friends to a pathetic man that was so helpless that he couldn’t even cry. Stomach clenching into itself, a wave a nausea rolls over him. Drizzt Do’Urden reduced to… _this_. A helpless, pitiable state that he could only wallow in while being trapped in an endless cycle of misery by the wretched coldness that won’t leave. All because…  
  
All because…he…The heavy fog was still settled over his mind. How had he gotten this way? Why? What was wrong with him?  
  
He couldn’t remember. The dammed fog was in his way and everything was eluding him. What had been the last thing he had done? Why was he in such a sorry state and so cold? Was he in the dale? Trapped by some monster? That didn’t seem right. No, it couldn’t be right. It had been summer and he had been nowhere near the Dale. He had been in—  
  
Warmth was pressing against his cheek and an eerily familiar scent of a dark spice pervaded his nose. He wanted to lean into it. Snuggle his face into the beautiful warmth and never leave. Let the merciful and kind warmth wash over him and take the dreaded cold away.  
  
He breathed in trying to take in the scent. The scent itself was warm like the hand resting on his cheek. Reminded him of the desert…almost like Calimport. Entreri.  
  
Entreri. The hand on his cheek had the distinct scent of his enemy, and he couldn’t move. He was helpless to Artemis Entreri.  
  
But how had—the fog dissipated.   
  
The highway men. The scaffold. The wicked nails, brutal torture…and he tried to cut off his thoughts. Trying to push all of the images out of his mind and wishing desperately for the fog he had been cursing to return.  
  
Cold. He was still cold. Focus on the cold…cold like he had been when—no, not that! Don’t think about—Figure out why Entreri’s hand was on his face!  
  
Figure out why Entreri’s hand was on his face. It has nothing to do with what had—stop! Figure out why the hand was on his face. Don’t think. Just focus on the mystery.   
  
Entreri would barely tolerate him on the best of days. What reason could the assassin have for resting a hand on his cheek? He was too self-aware for it to be incidental. There was no pulse point located there, so that was out. To check his temperature, the more logical place would be his forehead... _Why in the nine hells was Entreri’s hand on his face?_  
  
He felt his breathing hitch—another of the assassin’s hands touched his face. Barely brushing on his other cheek before moving firmly to the back of his head and propping it up. The hand on his cheek somehow coaxed his jaw open, and then there was a bottle on his lips.  
  
Oh.  
  
Cool liquid flowed down his throat, and just before the fog began returning he identified the faint sweetness of the blissful night-flower.


End file.
